


Not like ridin' a bicycle.

by Aquarius-Starchild (Rosenth0rne)



Category: Gravity Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosenth0rne/pseuds/Aquarius-Starchild
Summary: This was a fun little piece done for the 2018 Inktober event. Because it's older and a drabble, there are errors galore. It's set in an AU where Ford, Stan, and Fiddleford know each other in Gravity Falls and it takes place after Fiddleford's wife left him.Fiddleford is dealing with an unfortunate result of a midlife crisis. Stan is no help.Trigger warning: Broken leg. Not much else.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	Not like ridin' a bicycle.

Fiddleford glared intensely at the far wall with his arms crossed and his leg propped up on an ottoman in a heavy cast. The sour expression on his scratched up face only made Stan roll even harder on the floor.

“That was not like ridin’ a bicycle, Stanley,” Fiddleford growled through gritted teeth.

“I-I can’t! I-I’m-I’m sorry!” he wheezed, tears streaming down his face. Ford entered the room with a tray of food, shaking his head.

“I told you it was not something you wanted to do, Fidds,” the older twin sighed as he set the tray down near Fiddleford.

“Yeah, yeah,” Fiddleford grumbled.

“I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die right here! Sixer! Help me!” Stan cried through laughter. He had done everything he could to nurse Fiddleford’s mid-life crisis after his wife had left him but nothing had failed so spectacularly than Fiddleford’s want to drink at a biker bar. The bar had three rules: be able to hold yourself in a fight, leather and jeans only, and you had to have a bike. Ford found this extremely ridiculous and had backed out of the plan, warning Fiddleford that he was going to get hurt. Stan was all for it immediately.

As ridiculous as these rules were, Fiddleford had no problem showing he could fight if he really needed to. Growing up on a pig farm with seven male cousins, three brothers, and a sister who could suplex you into submission, you had to know how to handle yourself in a fight. He ended up impressing the bouncer after taking care of a local drunk who was causing issues. (Granted he apologized profusely to the man once he was sober enough to remember the apology even if he couldn’t remember the ass-kicking.) While it impressed the bouncer, he was still not allowed in for the other two rules: Looking the part and having a bike. 

That’s where Stan came in. He made sure Fiddleford looked the part: Tight blue jeans, heavy black work boots, a leather jacket with various patches and large white angel wings on the back with a short-sleeved black shirt under it, large black aviator sunglasses, fingerless leather gloves and a green bandana tied around his forehead. He even got Fiddleford to drop the chewing tobacco in favor of an actual cigarette. True, Fiddleford coughed up a storm when he lit it so it became more of an accessory that sat behind his ear than for something for him to smoke. He looked like every other biker that had walked into that bar.

The only thing left was the bike. Thankfully, Stan had a favor owed to him by someone who owned a bike so that took a lot less time than outfitting Fiddleford with the new biker attire. There was only one issue that both men had overlooked. Fiddleford had never driven a motorcycle before, nor did Stan realize that the bike, which was big enough for someone of Fiddleford’s height, may have been too heavy for someone with his lankiness.

So there they were, around the corner from the bar. Fiddleford sat on the bike, trying his best to keep it balanced with Stan standing next to him, pointing out what he needed to do.

“See? Easy, just like riding a bicycle,” he shrugged cockily.

“Okay,” Fiddleford exhaled as Ford walked up with his arms crossed. “Oh good! You made it!”

“I’ve got AMR on standby,” Ford answered curtly. “This is not going to end well, F.”

“Pssssh, spoiled sport!” Stan waved his hand dismissively then grinned at Fiddleford. “You’re going to get into that bar tonight and have the time of your life! Yeah?!”

“Yeah!” Fiddleford grinned back, nodding more confidently.

“Then start this baby up and show that bouncer you’ve got what it takes to get in there!” Stan barked which made the lanky man nod and start up the bike.

“This isn’t a good idea!” Ford chimed out which only caused Stan to cover his mouth with a hand. He had let go of the bike entirely now. “Fiddleford-!”

“Shut up!” he sang back. “Go Fidds!”

Without hesitation, Fiddleford took off, stopping at the stoplight and turning down the street toward the biker bar. There seemed to be a bit of a shaky start, but Fiddleford was able to stop in front of the door of the place, looking like the complete badass that he wanted to be. The bouncer let out a long whistle and greeted him pleasantly.

“HA! See?! Just as I said! Pay up, Nerd!” Stan exclaimed which caused Ford to roll his eyes.

“One, we didn’t bet anything-,”

“Oh… Damn it, this was an easy win!”

“… Sure… and two, you didn’t teach him how to park that thing, did you?” Ford shot a look at his brother who tensed up.

“Ah…”

“All right, yeah, come on in, Guy,” the massive man chuckled. Fiddleford suppressed a smile as he turned off the bike and sat there a moment. The bouncer frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know how to-,” Fiddleford muttered as the bike started to tip over and both landed parallel on the pavement with Fiddleford’s leg trapped underneath the heavy machine. It was then that Stan had realized that he was the one handling most of the bike’s weight when it was stopped, not Fiddleford. However, it didn’t stop him from bursting into laughter. Ford pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

After a quick visit to the town clinic, Fiddleford was turned over to Ford who brought him back to the cabin to the very spot he was sitting in now. Once Stan was done splitting his sides, he climbed up onto the couch next to Fiddleford.

“Oh, man…” he wiped his eyes. “What I wouldn’t have paid to see your face! We should have recorded that!”

“Shut yer yap,” Fiddleford’s eyes darted in his direction.

“Hey don’t blame me! That was what you wanted!” Stan snickered then turned his attention to the man’s thick leg cast. “Damn, they really did a number with that cast.”

“It’s broken in three places!”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard the doctors,” Stan nodded as he rapped his knuckles against the side. “Can you feel this?”

“… No,” Fiddleford narrowed his eyes at the man.

“How about this?” Stan moved his knuckles elsewhere and did the same.

“No.”

After several more times with the same answer, Stan sat back rubbing his chin. Fiddleford couldn’t tell if he was genuinely curious or wanted to find a weak spot. He was in enough pain for his own stupidity. He didn’t need any more on top of it.

“Huh. Cool.”

Ford, who had left the room soon after delivering the tray of food, had gone upstairs in order to prepare a bed for Fiddleford and called down for Stan to help Fiddleford to his crutches and up the stairs. Just as Fiddleford reached for his crutches, Stan scoffed.

“We’re not gonna need those!” he grinned and without warning, scooped the lanky man up in his arms. Fiddleford let out a pained yell that echoed through the cabin.

“YOU SONOVA HORSE’S-!”

“… You felt that, didn't cha?”


End file.
